


Too Late

by itsokfabulousishere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Johnlock?, Sherlock - Freeform, Suicide, i feel like andrew hussie, major character deaths, season2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsokfabulousishere/pseuds/itsokfabulousishere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was standing on top of a building. He was standing on the edge of a five story brick apartment building to be exact. He was about to jump. (Johnlock if you put on bifocals and squint really tight.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> I found a headcanon on Tumblr and I'm sure we've all thought about this at one point so, here it is. Idk if you want some tissues or something. I mean you really should've read the tag and now I feel like Hussie. This was originally an English creative writing piece so it's not extremely gorey and stuff. I hope you enjoy and feel free leave comments, preferably hate. That way I can tell my friends what strangers on the Internet think of my writings. And as a warning, this is my first fanfiction......yea...enjoy I guess.

Sherlock Holmes was standing on top of a building. He was standing on the edge of a five story brick apartment building to be exact. He was about to jump. He stared out over the London skyline, dotted with skyscrapers as if the spines on a reptile’s back. His scarf blew in the breeze that spun over the tops of the buildings, his dark brown hair getting in his eyes. Sherlock looked sadly down on his friend, John Watson. John was blundering about, looking for his currently missing friend. Pulling his cellphone out of his deep coat pocket, he dialed Johns number precisely. Behind him, his nemesis, Jim Moriarty, lay dead, his head in a pool of his own blood, the suicidal shot having taking care of the job that Sherlock had been trying to accomplish for years. It was just him left, standing on the ledge, and John, unknowing of what was about to happen, oblivious to the fact that Sherlock was about to end his life to save his. Unaware that at that very moment a sniper was trained on him, and was going to shoot if Sherlock didn’t jump. Sherlock calmly placed the phone to his ear, though it only rang once before John picked up.  
“Where are you?” John asked, getting straight to the point.  
Sherlock was silent for a minute,   
“Look to your left, then up,” he said quietly into the phone, watching the shock register on his friends face as he found him.  
“What are you doing up there, and where’s Moriarty?” John asked, confused.  
“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.   
“What are yo- Get down from there. Step away from the ledge, everything is going to be alright.” John gasped, realizing what Sherlock planned to do. “Come on, just take one step backward,” he coaxed, trying to remain calm.   
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, swallowing his fear.   
He dropped his phone with a thud onto the concrete roof. He could still hear John telling him to back up. To rethink it, but it was too late. With a deep breathe, Sherlock let himself fall. He knew the drop would kill him. He knew that there was no chance of survival, that the results were everlasting. “What was it Moriarty had said? Falling is like flying but with a more permanent destination,” he mused, the wind rushing past his ears. His hands and arms spun as if trying to find some type of ledge to stop the descent but there was nothing. His coat whipped around him, creating new patterns in the rush of wind. The ground slowly met him, and a sharp pain coursed through his body. Then nothing.  
John watched helplessly as his best friend plummeted towards the ground in what seemed to be slow motion. He watched, powerless, as his body hit the ground. He stood, frozen for a minute, as the suddenly crowded street flocked around the now lifeless body. The world seemed to still be in slow motion as he ran to see if there was any chance he could save him, knowing full well there wasn’t.   
“I’m a doctor. I’m a doctor.” He said, his short body pushing through the crowd to where Sherlock lay. He stared at his friend’s face, almost completely painted red. Underneath him, the pavement was a puddle of red, the blood collecting in diverts into the cement. Suddenly, the world sped up to real time. John quickly felt Sherlock’s neck and wrist, looking for any sign of life. The congregation of people pressed around him, their voices all in a different tone of shock. John shook his head sadly. There was nothing. He was too late.   
Sirens screeched around the corner. An EMS team jumped out of the ambulance, pushing everyone out of the way. They carefully loaded the limp body onto a stretcher and placed into the back of the transport. Slowly, the group dispersed, shaking their heads sadly and whispering to one another. They all had recognized the famous detective, the one who was known for his level head and observant ways. John stood in the spot next to where Sherlock’s body had laid. Nobody seemed to notice him; it was almost as if he were suddenly invisible. “Too late. Too late. Too late.” the words repeated themselves over and over in his head. Once the street was once again almost deserted, did he walk back to the flat that he and Sherlock had once shared.   
Once the door was closed behind him, did the tears begin. John leaned against the door, allowing himself to sink to the floor. He buried his face in knees and cried. Mrs. Hudson rushed in from the kitchen in her lower flat, hearing John come in. She held some type of mixing bowl, her usually happy face creasing with worry as she saw John sobbing at the door.   
“Oh, what’s wrong?” she asked, concern seeping into her voice. She placed the mixing bowl on the small table next to the door. “And where’s that Sherlock?”   
“I’m afraid, Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock won’t be around anymore,” John managed to choke out, looking up at her sadly.   
“Why’s that?” she asked quietly, fearing the worst.   
“He’s...he’s...he’s...dead.” John stammered, burying his face in his knees again.  
Mrs. Hudson’s face drained of all colour. She shook her head disbelievingly, not saying anything.   
“Well, I’ll go make us some tea real quick.” She said, forgetting her bowl as she retreated into the kitchen. John slowly got up, and made his way up the stairs to their, now his, flat. He dropped onto the couch, the spray-paint smiley face smiled down on him. The bullet holes in the eyes gave the impression of pupils watching him. John offered a sad smile back, and closed his eyes.  
“I was too late. I was too late to help. I failed. He died because I couldn’t do anything,” he thought bitterly to himself. “I could’ve saved him. If I had paid more attention, if I had followed him, if…,” he continued, blaming himself for the suicide. 

6 months later  
John sat in his flat. His current girlfriend, Amanda Abbington, sat opposite from him, chattering about the bakery next door. John was trying to listen, but failing. His own thoughts were crowding his mind, all of them about Sherlock’s suicide. He still blamed himself for it. His life had been taken over by depression, until he met Amanda. But recently, all his thoughts had been about the death. After the incident, Scotland Yard detectives had found Moriarty’s body on the roof, deeming it a suicide. There had been multiple interviews conducted by the detectives with himself and Mrs. Hudson, yet they still were been no closer on what made him jump six months earlier.  
“Anyway, what do you think?” Amanda asked, tilting her head a bit.   
The question brought John back to reality. “Oh, um, top notch,” He said quickly.  
“You don’t even know what I was talking about,” Amanda said with a shake of her head, her auburn hair spilling across her back, “What’s on your mind?”   
“Oh, just Sherlock and why he did it. You know, the usual,” He replied with a shrug, avoiding her gaze.   
“Oh, come on. You know that’s not your fault,” Amanda said, standing up. “Anyway, I got to go to the center. You know the daycare.” She clarified, grabbing her bag and heading down the stairs. “Bye!” she called, turning to wave before continuing down the steps and out the door.   
“Bye,” John replied weakly, leaning back in his chair. He reached across the chair to the table on his right. Under a stack of mail, was a gun. The metal was cold against his fingers as he pulled it from its hiding place. With a shudder, he cocked it. He knew Mrs. Hudson was out getting groceries, and Amanda had just left. With shaking hands, he held it to his temple. The barrel was pressed firmly against his forehead when he squeezed the trigger.  
Sherlock Holmes stood outside 221B Baker Street, his old flat. It had been six months since his faked death, and now he was ready to confront John. He went to knock when a shot went of inside the building. Trying the doorknob, he found if unlocked and he raced up the familiar staircase. He reached their flat, and stepped into the foyer. He was too late.


End file.
